What Did I Do Wrong?
by PrussianSecretPolice
Summary: Why?" I ask, crumbling under your hard gaze and wondering what I did to earn this from you. "What did I do wrong?"


What Did I Do Wrong?

I stare, dumbfounded, as you glare daggers at me, each one piercing my heart with ice. "Wh-why?" I stammer, shocked that you would do such a thing to me. A document is clutched in my hands, the paper trembling as I fight back sobs. "What did I do wrong?"

"Everything," you spit at me, the fury in your voice more shocking than the words on the document in my hands. "The taxes, the oppression, all of it. My people can't afford to be under your control any longer."

Your words are like a slap in the face to me. I practically raised you, and here you are rebelling against me like the defiant teenager you are. Everything I did, I did out of love for you. Of course, the taxes were a bit out of line, but I had no choice. If I raised the taxes on my own people, I would have had an outright rebellion from people who have the means to murder their king with ease, sending them into what could potentially be a civil war. It would have forced me to descend into a state of complete and utter madness.

I let the paper in my hands fall to the ground as the shame of my actions sets in. Unfortunately, my pride didn't allow the shame to fully control me. Instead of submitting and letting you go, I grow furious at your arrogance.

"After all I've done for you," I snarl, taking a menacing step forward. "After all I've ever given to you, you decide that I'm treating you unfairly?"

Your gaze hardens like marble as you take in my cold words. "Precisely," you reply icily, your smoldering blue eyes piercing my soul with the intensity of their stare.

I feel my body begin to tremble in fury. "You arrogant little ingrate," I hiss at you, secretly wishing that it hadn't come to this. "How dare you disrespect me like this? If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even be here, you bloody prick!"

"It's true," you say quietly, still giving me that icy look. "You were like a father to me. However, I'm sick and tired of you controlling everything I do. My people are barely scraping by financially because you refuse to allow them to trade with countries that will pay a reasonable price for their goods. I'm tired of it, Arthur."

I feel my heart shatter as you speak my name. Before, you had called me names such as "Papa" or "Dad", but now, as I realize that you are no longer the adorable little colony I once held in my arms, you address me as nothing more than "Arthur". Oh, what I'd give to see you run to me with some strange new insect or plant clutched in your tiny hands crying, "Papa! Look what I found!" Regrettably, those glorious days are over.

"I see," I murmur, understanding that you have grown into a potentially powerful and influential nation. Your face shows a slight glimmer of relief at my seemingly releasing words, but the look vanishes as my glare hardens into a cold stare. "I'm afraid that this means war, my dear Alfred."

I stalk away from you, my shoe leaving a smudged print on the paper over a signature scrawled much larger than the others at the bottom. Tears sting my eyes as I realize that you, my little Alfred, have many supporters, and, apparently, "John Hancock" wanted me to know that he was one of them.

My little colony is all grown up, and I am now forced to battle him. The only thing that keeps me from running back to you and begging forgiveness is my wounded pride. Oh, Alfred. Why, why did it have to come to this? I could never hurt you, even if my life depended on it. I can't see why you would want to hurt me so. Alas, the deed is done.

I am now at war with the one who once called me "Father", and I am to blame.

* * *

_A/n - So, yeah, another story written half asleep at two in the morning. I know that England and America were more like brothers than father and son, but I couldn't help but put them in that sort of relationship. _

_Btw, does anyone else think of Dumbledore and the earwax-flavored beans when someone says "Alas"? _


End file.
